First Night

Part One

You know, I blame the dream. I mean I'm not some bi-curious harlot. And the prickle of my cheeks in David Gandy's underwear section of Marks and Spencer's proves I am certainly no lesbian. So, yes, I blame the dream.

Where did it come from? Why should I, after years of red-blooded cock loving, dream of splaying on an altar (!) with my knickers off and some voluptuous, braided blond between my thighs? And how come her smooth cheeks and slippery fat wriggle of tongue got me wetter than any man's rough gobble? And why, when the impossible minx swivelled around on top of me and straddled my face, did I cum so hard it woke me up? And my husband!

Yes, I'm married. Very. Ok, so Paul is more Clark Kent than Superman – more handyman than Gandy – but he is sensitive when he needs to be and rough when I want him to be, and is tall and strong and makes me feel safe. That's why he's my agent, too, I suppose.

God. My gallery opening. I need to focus on that. Screw the lurid dreams.

The decorators have gone, and the gallery is finally mine and ready for me to hang my work. I have a big slice of delicious, absolute privacy. It might be midnight, but that's when I work best. Usually. If my head isn't full of girl-on-girl.

True, if you know my work, and my method, you might understand the dream thing. I draw nudes over a year, from spring to spring. A celibate year. Yes, I know you lot think a nude is a nude is a nude, but the tension in my work comes from the differences between them. Between the beginning of the process and the end. Pale and precise and balanced compositions give way to hot colour and florid lines and suggestive poses. And yes, it is also true I am at the end of this year's process. And that I am still a relatively young woman. And after months of absolutely no action down below, while drawing all kinds of people in all kinds of disported deportment my brain is very, very naughty. But still, I've never dreamt of admiring a girlfriend's waxing in quite so much... detail.

I've only hung one picture. Well, Paul has. He hid my drawing of him in the darkest part of the gallery behind a column. So I'm surrounded by, taunted by, piles of life-size nudes glowing out of charcoal blackness. Equal numbers of men and women – before you ask – and most of them not that sexy at all, really. Not compared to my heady imaginings, anyway. The opening is tomorrow night. Press in the morning. And here I am lost in lust and damp of gusset.

Oh I've tried... that. I know it's probably against the rules, but the work is done and anyway my fingers aren't enough tonight. And I don't mean I need some great dildo in me. (Though, hmm...) I did cum, but I can never properly scratch my own itch and my multiplied reflection in the glass of the artworks – writhing around with my hands up my skirt – has made me worse. Hornier. It's not about the orgasm, anyway. It's about... Oh I don't know. It's about intimacy and rudeness. Filth. Here in this pristine white cube of space, delicately placing perfectly framed, dry, achingly sincere artworks, I want to be wet and wild. Dirty.

So I blame my dream for the cheeky googles on my phone right now. I started tangentially with Georgia O'Keeffe's blossoms, but that lead quickly to Milo Manara's erotica. Paul tells me I am just like Manara's pouty supermodels and I get cross that he's even looking at them until he reminds me that the year is his sacrifice too! Then I google Beardsley and his "Adoration of the Penis" which puts me in mind of Paul in the morning at this time of year, which doesn't help at all. Then it's Victorian erotica, and lovely labia and it's all downhill after that. Then stills aren't enough. A video slurry of glistening pink folds and holes and heaving boobs and plundering tongues and fingers.

My hands shake and my breath is even quivering a bit. I wish I could press a button and project some of these abandoned tarts onto the floor. Swell them solid with the sight of my arousal. Sit on them. On their pretty, puffing mouths.

Perched on the wide slab of stone – actually an old altar stone – that we use as a bench in the middle of our space, I'm curled over my little hot screen, legs crossed twice over. Jesus, I'm actually growling. And I'm in a seedy place indeed. Both in my head and online. All black and yellow and flickering banner-ads and cream splattered meat.

Some promised link to a video ("I'll make your pussy drip honey on my tongue") has lead me to a blurred face woman. A local phone number. My finger stabs at it before I even blink. My hand shoves the phone to my ear, like: "deal with it." I can hardly hear the ringing over my course breath and heart pounding out of its cage. I want someone to answer quick. Before I lose my nerve. Before my mouth dries out completely.

"Hello!" Someone says.

Oh God, what a voice. Sleepy. Deep. Croaky.

I hang up.

It's only then I notice that the blurred faced woman has platinum blonde braids and I get a shiver of deja vu. I have the machine poised mid fling when it vibrates in my palm. For a second I think: Paul! Yes! he's checking how I'm doing! Maybe he can come over and sort me out! But no. It's not his number. Oh Shit. Callback.

I watch it ring. I bite my lips. I picture the woman on the other end, biting her lips too, maybe. Pouting. Ready and willing. Dripping honey. My phone thrums in my palm like a sex toy. I swallow. Press the red button.

"Y-Yes?" I bleat.

"You just call me, sweetie?"

"Yes."

"A girl, goody! Please don't hang up again. What would you like?"

"..." I want you, bitch.

"Don't be shy. I'll do anything. I love it all. Especially girls. "

I grunt. Just grunt. Like an animal. The woman laughs. I laugh too, but far too loud.

"Dear me," she chuckles, "You're in a quite a state aren't you? If you're local I can come round now, would you like that?"

"Yes."

"O... k. Text me where you want to meet. We'll take it from there, hmm?"

#

So now it's nearly one in the morning and I've been in the shower, like the whole time. I've turned off all the gallery lights, and am hiding beside the door, peering at the security screen. If the woman turns up and seems in any way dodgy I'll pretend there's no-one here. Shit. I don't want to think about what Paul would make of this. And the illicit sigh of air around the nakedness up my skirt? That's not already a betrayal. It's not.

Then there she is. Lord. She's ten years younger than me. In her twenties. Small and round featured. Straight backed and big eyed and plump lipped. Dressed corporately, if the corporation allowed stilettos and no bra under a clingy French polo and a skirt up to your knickers. Her thick eyeliner and thick red lips are wrong on such a fresh face, too. And the platinum braids and large dark eyebrows? More Khaleesi than Courtesan. It all looks like fancy dress. I jump at the buzzer, and turn on the lights.

She bounces on her toes when I open the door, and beams a smile that doesn't quite make it to her eyes. I wonder if it ever does. She might be younger than me but she's seen twenty lifetimes. Her ancient gaze flickers about my face, and beyond, into the gallery. Probably checking if she's safe. Poor thing, she must think I'm some kind of loon.

I falter, unsure whether you greet a prostitute as a lover, or as a businesswoman. I put out my hand. She takes it and pulls us together and she smells of soap and vanilla. Her lips press to my cheek, leaving a little wet love-heart on it. She is too beautiful and too cool to be doing this for a living. In fact, wonder if I'm pretty enough for her. Is she disappointed? I've never been able to trust those that tell me I'm beautiful.

"So now what?" she says. "You want me to do you here?"

She wants to do me. God she wants to do me. She's that confident, she knows she can just do it. Me. Just like that. What does that mean? "Do"? Fingers? Lips? Tongue? Shitting hell I want all of it. Do me. Do me. Do me. The words flash from the bulb of my knickerless clit, glowing through my skirt as I follow the clip-clopping woman into my gallery.

She has a tiny waist, given the flare of her bottom. I wonder if you could ever draw a non-sexual picture of a woman this shape. If I don't stop secretly panting I am going to faint. She runs her fingers along the unhung frames. Charcoal bodies juice and flush.

"Wow, sweetie. this your work? I'm Polly by the way."

And what's with the mockney accent? This girl went to a better school than I did, for sure.

"Izzy. I'm Izzy. Yes. All my own work."

She stops at the only picture on the wall. My cheeks and ears burn. Paul is brazenly nude. The first of the series, and only he and I know that his cock was still wet from me when he posed for it. His recently flagged erection makes for a pleasingly huge dangler. The only reason he lets me show it, I reckon.

Polly makes a purring kind of growl, taking off her jacket and kicking off her shoes. "Well hung, that one," she says, and spins to me. "Get it?"

A flare of jealousy doesn't make it to my claws, but gathers between my legs instead, and smoulders. This pretty stranger has my husband's freshly fucked cock in her eyes. In her head. And she seems to like it. It almost feels like cosmic approval. An approval underscored by her peering and pointing at the picture. "You know. I dreamt of that drawing last night. And that bloke. Torrid it was, too." She unzips her skirt. "Spooky. Anyway. Two fifty an hour. But that covers anything you want. I love it all. No bareback obviously. Even then." She seesaws a hand. "In the heat of the moment, if I feel safe... not an issue tonight though! Where do you want me?"

She folds her skirt slowly, what there is of it, and lets me letch at her perfectly smooth legs and her cornily-red silk thong. She twists her bum to me and gives it a jiggle. Pert and bouncy. Cow. I don't know what I want more, to bite it or steal it. She bends over with elastic grace and I try not to gawp at the plushness of her down there. But do. She beams through her legs. "I usually take a bit more time, you know, with the strip, but you seem needy!"

Polly stands up and tucks her thumbs in the thin lace of her knickers, then, in a moment of sweet self-consciousness, bites the inside of her cheek and hesitates. Her gaze twitches from my folded arms to my crossed feet. "You haven't done this before, have you Izzy?" She says.

My name on her lips flashes the tip of her tongue between her teeth and makes me want to flop into a puddle of my own making. I shake my head. Polly leaves her panties on and instead takes a step toward me. She stands too close, so that her thighs touch mine. She is a head shorter than me. Only Paul is ever let into this space, and he's much taller. Even this wrongness is exciting. She slides her knee along mine, unlocking it for a second.

She smirks and pulls her top off over her head with endearing awkwardness as she tries not to tear her wig off, too. The heat of her skin tumbles out and she arches up enviably perky breasts. Her nipples stiffen as they graze my (still folded!) forearms.

She sighs. Her breath is minty. I try not to think about why. But do. And like it. Embarrassed by my trembles, I run the backs of my fingers over her pale pink nipples and imagine her pale pink mouth in... places.

Polly gasps, though I doubt my caress is that arousing. "That's the ticket..." she whispers as if to a nervous kitten. "Now I have a theory..." she rolls her huge eyes as she reaches behind me, lifting my skirt. "Yep!" she smacks my bare buttocks lightly. I giggle. But actually giggle.

She grinds her hips on me, standing on tip-toe to push the ball of her mound to mine. My bum-cheeks are in her soft little hands as she smiles up at me. "I think I know what you need," she says.

"You better," I snap with an edge of desperation. She peers at my mouth. I hope she doesn't want to kiss me. Somehow that would be the worst kind of infidelity, even with her hot little breasts in my palms and my buttocks in hers.

"Hmm," she purrs. "It isn't those lips that need kissing is it?" I am surprised when her cheeks flush. A swell of power straightens me, puffs me up. One of her hands slides around my hips. My breath catches as her fingers slide boldly between my thighs. I whimper, caught between her two hands, front and back. Caught. She glows with the power, now. I am utterly in the palm of her hand. Her fingers don't move, just cup me. Testing my reactions.

I swing my knee aside.

"Yes," she says and slides deeper. I've never been touched by a woman. Her fingertips are insistent but exquisitely gentle and precise. She hums, lightly tickling. "Sweetie..." she peers down at our rude joining, even though there's nothing to see but the folds of my skirt over her wrist. "You're almost as wet as me."

She pulls her hand out and grins at her glossy fingertips, before tucking them between her lips. The glistening pink of her tongue licks me up and I tingle for more of her strong little hand. God. For that mouth. My brain has gone psychic with horn because she instantly drops to her knees. Is she going to do me now? So soon? She lifts my skirt.

Thankful that I'd had a cheeky waxing earlier (for Paul, not because of the dream, right?) I push what's left of my neat black tuft toward her platinum blondness and relish the lick of her gaze. "Mm-hmm" she says, and with that bunches my skirt to my bum and pulls my hips to her. She plants her face to my hairlessly sensitive pussy and presses a long kiss that makes my knees wobble. But when she tilts up to me with a blissful smile and sucks a tiny drop of moisture from her lip, I want to drop dead on the spot.

My cunt lips chill where she's daubed my arousal. I've never felt this liquid. "You can't possibly be wetter than me," I whisper, like the words are less porno if whispered.

"You don't believe me?" She says, standing up while she sweeps red silk down her legs with practiced slinkiness. She presses it into my hands. Shockingly sodden. I can't hide a curl of the lip, but the proof is there. Somehow I am massively exciting this predatory kitten. Is this foul or the single sexiest moment of my life? She claps her hands and guffaws but shuts up quick as I yank my dress off over my head and lunge.

My fever blinds me. I'm a shark in a feeding frenzy. Just lurid snapshots get through. Our bare breasts colliding. The roll of our tummies. Her lips burning into my neck and tits. The press of our nakedness melding our skin, the muscle of her thigh wedged between mine and the pulse of my rising orgasm. The kiss of her wetness on my fingers as they squeeze a whimper from her. The strength in her limbs as she pushes me back on the cold stone bench and spreads my knees. The urgent plucking of her lips to my cunt and the heat of her breath as she laughs at my moans.

And. God. Her devouring. Oh fuck. She is there, down there, softly, delicately, eating me alive. I think I have cum, more than once, I don't know. It's all new. I'm hers now. My entire body nestled in her suckling mouth, rolled about by her tongue. It's almost too much to bear. Almost.

I laugh and cry out again. And so does she, humming her giggles over my throbbing clit, into me, out of my own mouth. She knows me. No. She's intimately connected. Nerve to nerve. She doesn't just know when to ease off, when to build up, when to probe her fingers deep. She feels it.

Even now, as I want to beg for her cunt, but just can't. Without unsuckering from mine for a heartbeat, she swings hips over my face and smothers me with her slavering heat. And it's not odd, alien or unfamiliar. The opposite. I welcome her sex as a new part of me. Suck it in.

Her – no doubt considered, but still horny – yumming between my legs grows wobbly. Then crumbles and squeaks. She swears and shudders over me, into my mouth, until I quake too. We press harder. Feeding. Wrapping arms around hips, holding in place and holding on. Limpet-sealed, muffling our howls into the two-headed explosion of our conjoined orgasm.

#

I wake up to the buzz of the door. The gallery is cool grey in the daylight and I'm flopped on chilly stone, naked. Polly has gone. I taste her still, and I don't want to let the night go. I keep my eyelids shut and curl up in the heat of lurid memories. For all our legs-akimbo wildness, the memory that melts me most, now, is our recovering. Tangled, sharing warm skin.

"I know you won't believe me," her steamy ghost says into my neck. "But I'm an artist, too." She is unabashedly petting herself, the back of her wrist knocks at my hip. I hope I haven't hurt her. "People think I must be abused or a junkie, but that's in their heads not mine. I chose this life." She takes her hand from between her legs and brushstrokes wet fingertips in swirling loops over my breasts, down my stomach. "This is my canvas." Her swooping caress teases downward, forcing my hips up to meet it. Her fingers curl under. "Orgasms are my art." she dips her finger into me like paint, then back to my breast, describing delicious chill patterns over my hot skin all over again.

And again and again. Until she can't resist chasing the salty trails with the tip of her tongue, so when she dips once more I can't stand it. I hold her hand tight in place. She hums and slides her body down mine. That wicked soft cackle. Tongue caught between her teeth. Her cheek nuzzling my sex like a hungry, grateful cat.

Lord, it was way too good to be guilty about. In fact, I am definitely going to do it again. I even wonder if Paul might – Then with a jolt I realise: I didn't pay her.

The door buzzes, and keeps buzzing.

I stumble into my dress and fling open the door. A large man looms in bike leathers, pulling off his helmet. Damn. Paul. Not Polly.

"Bloody hell, Izzy," he says to my dishevelled sleepiness. I want to tell him now. That I've discovered a whole new side to myself. To us. Screw the sodding show.

But the morning is very grey. And his scowl very deep.

"Give me a couple of hours," I croak.

"The press arrives in one," he mutters.

#

Shaky on my legs and head whirring, I still manage to get everything up on the wall in time. It amazes me how easy these little decisions are when you have discovered something truly powerful and huge. Bang- bang-bang, they're on the wall. All those frigid boobs and flaccid cocks.

The press chuckle and chatter and shake my hands and kiss my cheeks and I squirm in the dark thrill of still having Polly all over me as they do so. Even if I'd washed it would make no difference. I am steeped in her; she would sweat from my pores. I wonder if she feels the same, or is she really just the consummate artist of consummation she claims? I wonder if— no I hope – she took no money because she felt the same as me. As spent and satisfied as me. As alive as me. Maybe, just this once, she's taken a lover, not a client.

Paul avoids me all day and I want to tell him, and he seems to sense this as his eyes are worried and soft even under his constant glower. He doesn't look like he's slept much either. Does he know, somehow, or am I just projecting? When the press leave I open my mouth to let it all spill out but he holds up his palm and turns away.

"Just go home. Sleep. Get ready for the party," he says.

#

Part Two

Following a good nap and shower, I've calmed down a bit, you'll be glad to hear. I even feel a little foolish to be so fooled by Polly's obvious skill. She doesn't answer when I call, or respond to my text in which I'm afraid to mention money so I just say, "Call me" which – now I look at it – comes across a bit desperate, too.

So now I'm at the opening party, all dolled up and fragrant in my little black dress but anxious about this unfinished dirty business. Jesus, though. Everyone treats me like the Virgin bloody Mary. Practically on their knees striking their breasts. I sodding hate sodding gallery openings. An exercise in how many sycophants can climb up your arse.